The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(13)

“God!” She grunts, and I can feel myself throb still harder. Fuck… I ease the pressure on myself, then clamp down tighter, pumping so fast it’s making my balls bounce.

“Oh God, yes!”

I hear her panting as my seamen jets between my fingers, pooling on my lower belly.

Fucking shit.

I’m so spent, I can’t move as I listen for her little gasps and groans. I hear nothing as I clean up, pull my clothes off. No way we finished at the same moment. Too much coincidence. I listen for a few more seconds before hopping into the shower. I’m still half hard. Goddamn, that was hot.

After I’m out, I give myself a squeeze, then tuck my long cock up behind my pants waist. I listen hungrily for Marley. Even just her foosteps would be hot at this point.

Maybe she’s asleep.

I pull a hat and glasses on, and sneak outside for a cigarette behind the house, along the treeline where I’m hidden from the road. That’s when I notice the huge, green truck in Marley’s spot.



*

Marley





I’m drowsing in the guest bed, curled up on my side, under a pile of blankets, when the music starts. At first it’s just the sound of someone knocking, breaking into a great dream where I’m giving my healthy, full-term baby a bath, and she’s doing this baby giggle thing. Then I’m pulled out of the bathroom. I’m in a car—my brother’s borrowed truck—and searching for a station that’s not rap or R&B. Finally, the bass boom starts to shake the bed, and I open my eyes to stabby feelings, which get stabbier when I confirm: the music’s coming from below me.

Gabe.

Because of course he’s blaring loud music. Of course, of course. I treated four babies today and found my car dead in the parking lot when work was finally over. Zach had to come help me, let me borrow his truck. I squished something small and fuzzy under one of his giant, mudding tires as I drove home, which led to a long, stupid breakdown. Finally, I climbed into the canopy bed in the guest room off my den, let down the sheets of rich, burnt orange to make a tent around the bed, and soothed myself with Mr. Blue.

As I drifted off to sleep, I felt okay for the first time today. And so of course I wake up to this shit.

My grandma calls these Devil Days, and I believe she’s right.

I don’t bother to soften my footsteps as my soles smack the rug. I’m not bothering with clothes again, either. I pull on my robe and fuzzy socks, and spend the next half-hour stomping around intermittently, hoping to remind Gabe that there’s someone upstairs.

I take a break and a few soothing, yoga breaths after a while, and send up prayers. C’mon…I could really use a break.

No Bueno.

Minutes tick by. Soon it’s been an hour. I’m not going to go down there. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Not unless it goes on past my bedtime. I do laundry, followed by a yoga video. I wash the dishes, hang a few things on the wall.

When it’s almost nine, and the music is still vibrating my floor, I slump into the armchair by the living room’s front window and Google his name. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe he had some kind of breakdown. The Gabe I knew when we were young could be evasive and cool, but he was never like this.

Years ago, I read an interview with him—it was in a magazine at my dentist’s office, so I caved—and I saw where he said he’d been sober since about the time our marriage ended.

Maybe he fell off the wagon.

That seems likely maybe.

Google turns up nothing much—no Perez Hilton write-up, and no trashy Page Six bit. I see him via Google image search wearing a tux beside a waifish blonde described as Madeline Decristo, novelist. A search of her name lets me know she’s a New York Times bestseller living in New York City. Her bio with her pub house mentions she’s raising a daughter, and her web site says she’s partnered with another author. I cross-check Amazon.com, where I remember seeing author bios in the past, and find that bio matches the one that mentions the daughter, but not the author partner. She could be an ex, I guess. Or—hell—she may be no one to him. Why do I care?

I wait until ten o’clock to pull my hair up, stuff my feet into slippers, stomp down the outside stairs, and stalk through the dewy, cool grass. I march up the porch stairs like I own the place, making a mental note to talk to Miss Shorter if Gabe doesn’t shape up. He may be famous, but that woman was my childhood Sunday school teacher, and she left me chicken salad on my porch two days ago. She loves me more.

I knock a few times, fast and hard, and hold my breath as I brace myself for the sight of him.

Finally the door swings open, and my lungs halt mid-breath.

Gabe in a snug gray shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. Gabe with rumpled hair and a blank face. He just stands there, blinking at me like he’s unaware his level of the house is spewing club-worthy rap at brain-busting volume.

I falter only for a second. Then I put my hand on my hip. “What the hell with that stuff?”

He looks clueless. Innocent.

“The music! You do know it’s nighttime? Bedtime?”

“Is it?”

That’s when I see it: a little flare of his nostrils. Oh—he knows he’s doing this! He’s doing it on purpose.

I grit my teeth. “It is. And I can’t sleep because your music is rocking my bed.”

Gabe tilts his head back, giving a low chuckle. “Funny you should say that…” He lifts a brow, and—